


In Case of Emergency

by aguantare



Series: Sin Fronteras [18]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Light Angst, M/M, slashy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: Leo stops at a gas station on the way to the hospital to grab a cup of coffee. He reasons that if Neymar's already at the ER, there's nothing he can do that hasn't already been done, so he can afford to take the extra five minutes en route.





	In Case of Emergency

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of in survival mode at work right now, so writing has taken a back seat, but I'm trying to stay with it when I can. 
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me

Part of Leo's job as manager is collecting the annual emergency contact info and hospital designations from the guys on the factory floor. It's a little bit like herding cats, and after four years, Leo's long since resigned himself to chasing down individual stragglers a week after the deadline.

He's a little surprised when he runs down his checklist on a Friday night and sees that he's still missing Neymar's info. The guys who run late on this are usually the same guys who run late to shift, but in the six months since Neymar started working here, he hasn't missed a day or run even a minute late, or slacked off, for that matter. 

Leo checks his watch. Eight minutes until shift starts. Plenty of time to corner at least a few guys at their lockers. He steps out of the manager's office, which is really just a dressed-up broom closet, and heads down the hallway to the alcove that houses the lockers. When he sticks his head around the corner though, Neymar is the only one there, already changed into his coveralls and engrossed in checking something on his phone. 

Leo knocks his knuckles against the locker bank to announce himself, raises his eyebrows in greeting when Neymar looks up at him.

“What's up?” Neymar asks, putting his phone in his locker. 

“Got your info sheet filled out?” Leo asks in reply. 

“Uh, yeah.” Neymar reaches into his locker, pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it over. By the time Leo unfolds it, Neymar has already shut his locker and stepped by him, heading for the factory floor. 

The hospital designation at the top is filled out, but the bottom portion, where people are supposed to list their emergency contacts, is blank. Leo glances up again, intending to call Neymar back, ask him if he just forgot to fill out the second half of the sheet, but Neymar's already disappeared onto the floor. 

After a moment of indecision, Leo digs a pen out of his pocket, flattens the paper against the wall and scribbles in his own contact info under the “Second Contact Person” category. It's what he does for most of the guys on the graveyard shift, and some of the guys on second shift too, guys whose families might not speak a lot of English, or might not have papers. It gives Leo some peace of mind, and it gives his workers peace of mind, too. 

He walks the paper back to the office, files it in the folder along with all the other info sheets, and promptly forgets about it. 

-

Two weeks later, Leo's jolted out of a deep sleep at 3 AM by the shrill ring of an unknown caller on his cell phone. He almost ignores it—it's his first day off in almost a month. But a bleary-eyed glance at the phone screen tells him it's a local area code, and so he answers it, still only half-awake. 

“ 'lo?”

“Mr. Messi?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm calling from the ER at Mercy Hospital in East LA. You're listed as the emergency contact for a Mr. da Silva?”

“...I am?”

“First name Neymar?”

-

Leo stops at a gas station on the way to the hospital to grab a cup of coffee. He reasons that if Neymar's already at the ER, there's nothing he can do that hasn't already been done, so he can afford to take the extra five minutes en route. 

When he gets to the hospital, the slightly harried-looking nurse at the front desk clicks through a few screens on the computer, then directs him down a hallway in a polite, businesslike manner. Leo feels kind of awkward walking through the corridor alone, the old T-shirt and sweatpants he'd thrown on in his haste clearly marking him as someone who doesn't belong here unescorted, but the scrubs-clad nurses and white-coated doctors bustling around him don't even give him a second glance. 

It's in the third semi-private room on his left that he finds Neymar, shirtless, right side of his torso mottled purple and blue, splint on his right leg, IV in his arm.

“Jesus,” Leo says before he can stop himself. Neymar looks up at his voice, frowns when he sees who it is. 

“What are you doing here?” It's not rude, just confused, and maybe it's the painkillers, or the setting, or both, but his accent, that quintessential East L.A. Chicano Latino affect, it's softer, less pronounced than when he's at work.

“I uh--” Leo waves a hand vaguely in the air, stepping into the semi-enclosed space, “Hospital called me. What the hell happened?”

“Someone in the loading dock got lazy,” Neymar says, “Went out for a smoke, came back in just in time for two fuckin' pallets to come down on top of me.”

Leo makes a mental note to schedule a performance review for the loading crew first thing tomorrow. _Review_ , he thinks to himself, _Yeah right. It'll be a goddamn inquest_.

“Lucky I wasn't any closer,” Neymar adds, shifting a little and wincing, “Head shot probably would have fucked up the few brain cells I have.” 

Leo isn't really sure what to say to that. The thing is, this is the most he's talked to Neymar since he started working at the factory. There are things he knows without having to be told, inferences he's gathered from facts in Neymar's personnel file—like the fact that he has an ITIN instead of a Social Security number—and idle chatter in the break room (“You ask Neymar to cover for you tomorrow?” “Yeah, he said he can't, doesn't get off his other job until 5.”) – but he can't say he knows the man well.

“You want me to call someone?” he asks after a short silence. 

Neymar shakes his head, shifts again, winces more noticeably. 

“Nah, man,” he says, looking down, “It's cool.”

Leo almost takes that at face value, before his mind flashes to the blank emergency contact info that Neymar had returned to him.

It occurs to him—suddenly, painfully—that maybe Neymar didn't actually forget to fill it out at all.

“Hey man.” Neymar's looking up at him again, making a decent attempt at looking unfazed. “You should go home. I know it's your day off.”

Leo stands there for a long moment.

“Nah,” he says eventually, walking over to the chair next to Neymar's bed and taking a seat, “I'll hang out here. Manager's prerogative. Gotta make sure they're taking good care of you.”

Neymar looks at him for a second or two, almost bemused. Then his expression settles. He doesn't say thanks, or okay, or try to joke in reply.

But he doesn't protest, either.

**Author's Note:**

> *ITIN: [Individual Taxpayer Identification Number](https://www.irs.gov/individuals/general-itin-information), often used by undocumented workers who don't have a SSN in order to file/pay taxes.


End file.
